Climbing into your snowbound car,
my first winter memory:
My step-father scrapes ice
off his blue Studebaker
outside the house in Ozone Park.
My mother’s in the front seat,
I’m behind, cold and alone.
I breathe hard, watch
the warm air from within
linger before me like a cloud.
Through the portal,
I see him come ‘round
to ready the other side.
I lean forward, eyes closed,
plunge past my mother’s
powdery smell to inhale
the animal warmth
of her fur collar;
she touches my cheek
with soft gloves.
And you, Jen, scraping morning ice,
wearing a rabbit collared coat,
like my mother’s
when she was a remarried "bride"
and I was but five.
Soon after, we left Queens,
hurled ourselves out West
to a palmed Elysium
where I never saw snow again
until now.